It feels indecent, given the ancient
hunger, to write in peace with plenty
of broiled fish, greens, fresh butter
on perfect potatoes. Once there was
a man who climbed a mountain
to converse with the law-giver’s publisher
and the prophet of prophets until he became
transfigured with the light from which he came,
after which he was met with many demons
in a scrawny young boy. If any would ascend
she must come down the rocky path
from heights she’d rather never leave
to face whatever demons lie in wait. Only then
does ecstasy earn its moment of sun, which may be
the only luxury it ever knows, could ever long to know.